


Snow What?

by theclockiscomplete



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluffy Snow, I will deny the imminent loss of Clara probably forever, Snow, come to me ye weary whouffaldi shippers, fluffy snowy fluff, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 11:02:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5245886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theclockiscomplete/pseuds/theclockiscomplete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twelve and Clara have a very small adventure and love every second of its normalcy. Just this once. So much fluff, you guys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snow What?

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have anything to say for myself. I saw "imagine your otp building a snowman" and was just kind of trash from that point on.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Clara and the Doctor sat side by side on the couch, gripping steaming mugs of hot chocolate and watching the snow falling gently outside. They were wrapped in Clara’s oversized duvet, watching the snow fall in companionable silence. The room was dark, the fire in the hearth reduced to shimmering red coals, and the eerie snowlight outside dimly illuminated both of their faces. Clara reached out and gently prodded the Doctor’s shoulder. “Where’d you go?” He turned to her, startled from his thoughts. His eyes softened, and a corner of his mouth curled up as he looked back into his mug.

“Nowhere,” he said. “Sorry. It’s just…this.” He gestured out the window. “I’ve seen galaxies dying and being born. I’ve been there at the dawn of so many civilizations, watched worlds tilt on their axes and seen more wonders than I can even remember.” He looked back up at her and his voice grew quieter. “I have seen all of these things and more, but right now, I think this might be the most beautiful memory I have.”

Clara’s eyes were wet when she smiled, and she lifted a hand to the face before her. He leaned into her touch, and her fingertips brushed through the fine hair at his temple. He closed his eyes and spoke. “There’s a theory you humans have, and it’s fascinating because you’re one of the only species I have encountered who believe it.” Clara scooted closer and shifted so that she was leaning against the Doctor with her feet curled up beside her. She grinned briefly at the lost expression when she removed her hand and waited. “The theory is,” the Doctor continued, “that in order for things to be beautiful, they have to be scarce. Fragile. Easily lost.”

Clara frowned. “That’s really just a human thing?”

“No, but it’s not exactly a common viewpoint in the universe as a whole.”

“And what do you think?” Her head was in the crook of his shoulder, and she tilted it to look up at him. In the snowlight, with that look on his lined face, she could believe that he truly was over 2000 years old— could see the years in his eyes.

“I think that humans have the most beautiful spirits,” he said. “And I know that you are some of the most transient species in the universe. Even moreso when you get caught up with me.” Clara watched his features begin to shift into the brooding expression she spent so much time trying to wipe off of him.

“Oi,” she whispered. She grasped his chin and angled his face down to her. “Riddle me this, you daft old man.” He raised an eyebrow. “The ones who get tangled up with you—do you choose them because they are the most beautiful, or is it being with you that makes them—us— more beautiful?”

The Doctor took a deep breath, and the exhale seemed to take forever. “I’d never call their untimely deaths ‘beautiful,’” he said finally.

“That isn’t what I mean, Doctor.”

“If you’re asking if knowing that they’re in danger every moment they’re with me makes me love them that much more…” he looked down at her. A corner of his mouth dragged upward. “What’s that saying you have? Pain is beauty. Knowing that something precious to you can only last for a short time makes the pleasure indistinguishable from the pain.”

Clara chuckled. “That’s not what it means,” she said. “But I like your definition better.” She shifted her mug of cocoa to her other hand and intertwined her fingers with his. In the comfortable silence, with his heartbeats thudding rhythmically under her ear, Clara was just on the precipice of sleep when she heard the Doctor whisper her name. She made a noise that probably translated to “what” in some language or another and cracked open her eyes.

“Let’s build a snowman.” A small part of Clara said no, go away, I want to sleep, but somewhere in her heart she felt excitement begin to grow. Here was an adventure. Clara and her Doctor, awake when the rest of the world was asleep under the fresh blanket of white outside—the only two in the world. And this man, this wonderful, impossible man with his time machine and his two thousand years of life…he was her best friend, and he was here, and he wanted as many adventures with her as possible. The grin on her face turned into a giggle, and then he was pulling her up by the hand and they were throwing on coats and boots and gloves like children. Clara looped a violet wool scarf around the Doctor’s neck and made a picture frame with her hands.

“Dashing,” she said, and laughed outright when the Doctor rolled his eyes and plopped a beanie over her head, making sure to cover her ears. They exited the flat and stood for a moment on the stoop, eyes roving over the untouched expanse of lamplit snow. Where the light pooled and sparkled was a soft yellow, and the lines and dips in between alternated blue and purple shadows. Their breath steamed in the air and a few straggling flakes drifted past. “It’s so bright,” Clara said. When she turned, it was to find him looking down at her.

“Yes,” he said. “It is.” Clara took his hand and leaped off the stoop, landing in the new snow with a crunch. She led the two of them out to the middle of the courtyard and only released his hand to begin scooping snow. They worked tirelessly for several minutes, patting and rolling and stacking, and it was only when the head had been affixed to the body that the Doctor blurted, “he doesn’t look anything like a man, Clara. None of them ever do.”

She blinked a couple of times at him and then burst out laughing. “Has that been bothering you this whole time?”

“For centuries,” he said, bringing his fists up in a fit of frustration. “They don’t look like men! They never have! And yet,” he gestured to the shape in front of them, trailing off. Clara snickered. He scowled at her.

“It’s not that you’re wrong,” she began.

“I know I’m not wrong.”

Clara flicked snow off of her glove at him. “It’s just a name for them,” she said. “Give it a face, it must be a man. You know. Companionship.”

“Yeah, well names have power,” he grumped. “And I have met some very unpleasant snowmen. So have you, not that you’d remember.”

Clara squinted up at him. “When you say ‘unfriendly…’”

“So!” the Doctor exclaimed abruptly. “Is this the part where there’s a snowball fight?”

Clara arched an eyebrow, decided to let the obvious diversion stay. “We need more people,” she said.

“It’s a fight,” he said slowly. “Most of them only involve two people. Sometimes only one. Any more than that and we’re talking war, a skirmish, possibly an ambush—” snow suddenly exploded across his chest. He blinked.

“There,” Clara said smugly. “A two-person ambush.”

“What?” he spluttered. “That was not—you were right there! An ambush requires hiding, finesse. You can’t just—” Clara continued rolling the next handful of snow between her mittened hands.

“Don't mind me,” she said, face arranged in a perfect mask of polite interest. “Do go on.”

He faltered. “Maybe the definition can be expanded.”

“Thought so.” They grinned at each other. Clara set the snowball on top of the snowman’s head. “There,” she said. “Now we have a culturally inclusive snowman. Two heads,” she added at the Doctor’s confused look.

He frowned. “That’d make it a snowboggon, not a snowman.”

Clara put her hands on her hips. “You said boggons weren’t real.”

“I did no such thing.” Clara’s eyes narrowed. The Doctor began backing away.

 “You made fun of me when I said it!” Clara followed his retreat, slogging after him through the snow.

“Because I wouldn’t have ever been hanging out with them! I never said they weren’t—” his back rammed against the only light post in the courtyard, effectively cutting him off. Clara moved to stand almost flush against him, glaring up at his wide eyes. A long moment passed. “You look like you’re going to hit me or kiss me,” he said finally.

“Caught on, have you?” she said, but her face was primed for a smile.

“Well,” he said. “If I present my face will it help you decide quicker?”

“Might do, yeah.”

“Good. I’m freezing.” He lowered his head to her height and waited. Clara reached up and gently brushed a snowflake off of his eyebrow. He flinched and then sighed. “I hate when there’s an option C. Unless I’m about to die,” he qualified. “Then I love option C, and I’m an even bigger fan of D and E.”

“Shut up,” Clara said. She took his face between her hands and kissed him soundly on the mouth. He’d gotten better at reacting, she noticed dimly as she wound her hands around his neck. He didn’t wave his arms for more than a second and she almost felt his brain kick in before his mouth opened to allow her in. He tasted of old hot chocolate and the cozy duvet, like icy breath and the stars they couldn’t see for the low, sulking clouds and the amplified lamplight. When they finally broke apart, they stood panting and staring at each other, Clara bundled in her coat and beanie with the pompom and the Doctor in his hoodie and the deep purple scarf that matched the shadows outside the lamplight. The Doctor looked like he was about to say something, and then he sneezed.

“Oh no.” he moaned and covered his face with a gloved hand.

“What?” Clara asked slowly.

“My body has just informed me I have the beginning stages of a cold,” he said.

“Your body just… tells you that. Okay.”

“Well so does yours, but you don’t listen and hope it goes away.”

Clara shrugged. “That’s fair.” She took his hand and tugged him along. “Come on, in we go. I am freezing and tired, and you need to get out of those wet clothes.”

“What about you?” he asked as the door shut behind them. Clara stamped the snow off her boots and unwound the scarf from his neck.

“I’m fine,” she said.

He snorted. “See? Denial.”

“How would you possibly know if I was sick?”

“I didn’t say you were sick. I said beginning stages. You could still potentially fight it off.” Clara shoved him into the bathroom with a pair of pyjama pants and a jumper she’d nicked from the console room and shut the door. She tugged the duvet from the couch to the bed and was half-asleep beneath it when the Doctor padded in, barefoot and fluffy hair in disarray. Clara patted the bed next to her and he flopped down with a yawn that morphed into a heavy sigh. “Only because I’m sick and don’t feel like arguing,” he said.

Clara snuggled close and put his arm over her before pulling the duvet over them both. “Whatever works.” 

**Author's Note:**

> They never decorated the snowman. Oh well. The kids in the complex have something to do in the morning. :)
> 
> Update: I watched face the raven. I'm going to end up reading my own fic like some kind of narcissist because oh my god. My heart. The light of my life. I have cried all night. My love, you were brave to the end and we are all so, so proud. 
> 
> Thank you so much for the kind comments, and so much for reading as well.


End file.
